We lived in a small town. A tiny town. No traffic lights. No party stores (at least not when I lived there). No stores open on Sunday . . . Everyone knew everyone else -- and often everyone knew everyone's business. It can be annoying, but it isn't always a bad thing.
Neighbors kept track of neighborhood children. And few things were kept secret. My sisters and I could seldom get away with anything naughty as it would almost always be reported back to Dad. As a consequence we seldom did (major) naughty things. Nothing was worse than being the recipient of Dad's ire. His disappointment in us was more than enough punishment.
Being trustworthy did have its benefits. Although Dad never bought any of us a car, once we were old enough to drive there was always a car available for our use. And they were generally fun vehicles to drive as well. At different points in our youth we had a 1964 Plymouth Fury convertible, a 1956 Willys Jeep, a 1972 Fiat Spider and a slew of other fun or sporty cars. But, they were hardly something one could drive around town and remain anonymous. Ahhh, Dad's master plan.
The Plymouth convertible was basically Mom's car. It seems as though we had it for a long time, but it had been sold to a neighborhood kid before I was old enough to drive so I never had the pleasure of driving it -- legally. When I came of age, I had the pleasure of driving the Willys Jeep. A big, boxy thing with a gear ratio that was so forgiving one could start out in third gear and still make it move down the road.
I taught my friend from Finland to drive in that jeep. We literally bounced across the bridge in town, singing the Beatles song Yesterday, while I showed her how to use the clutch, brake, gas and shift. Even today I think of her every time I hear that song.
Although I never got to (legally) drive the Plymouth, I do remember that instead of a shift, it had buttons to the left of the steering column for shifting into reverse, park and drive. Mom never saw a car as a status symbol, she did enjoy driving that car. Who wouldn't have? It must have been quite easy to drive.
So Mom scooted around town in that little white convertible with the red interior. She delivered forgotten gym uniforms to school. She took us to dental appointments. For a long time she was the only one of her sisters with a driver's license, so she was the designated driver when they got together for shopping trips. Mom was also the designated mail pick-up person. On those days when Dad didn't have time, or when the mail had not been sorted yet when he went on his daily coffee run to the local restaurant, Mom would dutifully drive to the post office to get the mail.
Everyone in town knew Mom and her little white convertible. It was early one spring that she noticed the neighbors were especially happy to see her as she drove around town running her endless errands.
"Everyone was waving and smiling. It was so nice to see so many friendly faces," Mom said at dinner that evening.
It turns out the cat had been sunning itself on the roof of the car when Mom left for the post office. Apparently Mom hadn't noticed him and drove from our house to the post office with the cat clinging to the roof for dear life -- his nails dug deep into the convertible's roof.
"He took off as soon as I got to the post office," Mom said. "I don't think we'll ever see him again."
The cat did turn up a few days later. He was sitting on his usual spot in the window of the barn waiting for his breakfast. From that point on he gave the car a very wide berth.
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